Unleashed: Volume 2 (Unleashed #2) (17 page)

I closed my eyes, but I
could still see the tiny scrap of skirt I’d worn that night for
Declan. I couldn’t believe what he had me doing for him. Dressing
up like a French maid? A wave of embarrassment engulfed me. Dear
Lord, had I actually role-played, slipping on a costume and heels and
pretending to dust an immaculate surface with a feather duster? If
someone had told me that last week, I would have laughed them off as
crazy. I’d never do that kind of thing.

When he’d told me to
strip naked and put my hair up, I’d been shaking with nerves. And
lust, too. Anticipation. But when I’d first stepped into the master
bedroom and seen the revealing scraps of lingerie, the black lace
skirt and tiny white bows, my first thought had been, “Oh, hell
no.” French maid? The whole idea seemed ridiculous. Who could dress
up in a costume not on Halloween and act sexy? What would he want
next, Little Bo Peep? Marie Antoinette? I could picture myself in a
huge wig trying to seduce Declan while wearing a large basket skirt.

I’d never understood
role-play, and it had never entered into my fantasies. It seemed too
silly. “Oh, carry me away, you big handsome firefighter.” Nope.
I’d just crack up laughing.

But there on the bed
I’d seen that g-string and the tiny triangles of lace that passed
for a bra. Plus a lacy skirt with fasteners and straps that clipped
onto sheer, silky stockings—that must be what people called a
garter belt, I’d realized. So, OK, I’d felt curious. It couldn’t
hurt to put it on.

Once I had, there was
no going back. I’d spent more than a few minutes in front of the
full-length mirror. I got it, in that moment, why lingerie was sexy.
It sounded ridiculous to not have realized that, but at the ripe old
age of 24 I simply hadn’t experimented much in that department. I’d
had too much else that demanded my attention and not enough incentive
to go outside my comfort zone.

But then I saw myself
in that outfit, long legs dipped in high heels and dark, sheer, silky
stockings, a patch of skin showing along my upper thighs. When I
turned around, because of course I had to see myself from all angles,
my eyes had widened over how much I bared. The whisper of a bra was
barely held together in the back with a single satin ribbon tie. The
g-string of course revealed everything. And that skirt. What a moment
ago had seemed laughably ridiculous now looked dirty and tempting,
grazing the swell of my bottom, leaving the lower half of my cheeks
exposed and begging for attention. I couldn’t help but strike a
pose in the mirror, breasts pressed forward, stomach in, ass out as
if asking for Declan’s hand.

I couldn’t believe I
was going to let him see me in that outfit. But once I had it on, I
couldn’t not share with him. My fingers trailed down my stomach in
the steamy, caressing water. My other hand circled up to my breast as
I relaxed in the bath.

I couldn’t believe
the way he’d drawn me up over his lap and smacked my ass, so sharp
and surprising, but then caressed me so gently, so sweetly, drawing
out my honey for him. The feel of his wide, thick hands on my hips.
How deeply he entered me, so commanding and full. The harsh sound of
his voice as he groaned in release.

Parting my thighs
slightly, I lifted my hips and brought a finger down to my sex. So
slick, still so swollen and slippery from Declan’s assault. I
cupped myself, then brought my own finger deep inside my folds. Lips
parted, I realized how quickly I could make myself come. A few
strokes working my clit, and I could bring myself up to climax all
over again.

I opened my eyes and
moved my hands to the sides of the tub. No coming. Declan had told me
I could play with myself in the bath, but I wasn’t allowed to come.

That rule was hard to
follow. So why was I following it? It wasn’t as if he had hidden
cameras trained on me. Or did he? I looked up and around the
bathroom, scanning for surveillance equipment. No lenses, no blinking
lights. I supposed high-tech gadgets intended for spying would be
more subtle than that, but somehow I didn’t feel like I was being
watched. Not that I would mind, if it were Declan.

Where did that thought
come from? I shook my head and decided to otherwise occupy my hands
by shaving my legs. Perching up on a ledge, I found a razor and
shaving cream. Something about the mundane task seemed soothing, like
washing dishes. Uncomplicated, you started at point A and ended at
point B and voila! Accomplishment. Better yet, it was something I’d
done a million times before. Familiar territory.

I was on dramatically
unfamiliar territory now with Declan. I’d never engaged in the kind
of play he liked. No one had ever made me want to, certainly not
Bruce back in high school, and no man since either. Bruce was back in
town now. He’d moved back about six months ago and started texting
me, letting me know his divorce to the girl he’d married in college
was finalized. Like that would get me hot.

But Declan? He made me
crazy. The sharp slap of his hand on my ass made me so hot. I’d
been so shocked at first, not to mention a bit angry and embarrassed.
Who did he think he was, spanking me like I was some naughty
schoolgirl? But then when his hand became a caress, soothing my skin
and swirling into my wet depths my mind had gone blank with need.
Something about the combination, the juxtaposition, the punishment
followed by pleasure heightened the intensity, nearly blinded me with
passion.

I slipped back into the
bubbles, my skin now shaved smooth. I closed my eyes and remembered
how he’d pinched my nipple. I’d been so surprised. I pinched my
own nipple now, arching my breasts out of the steaming water, and a
similar flood of pain and pleasure flooded my senses. But not like
when Declan did it. The rough callouses on his hand, his large
fingers. Drawing my finger down to my sex again, I stroked,
remembering how he’d done that so expertly, so maddeningly.

It didn’t matter if I
shouldn’t let him do that to me. I loved it. I didn’t understand
it. It didn’t make sense. Logic dictated that his behavior should
make me furious. There wasn’t another man in the world I would let
do that to me. I wouldn’t enjoy it. But with Declan? I craved it. I
needed him to do it again.

I drew a bar of soap
across my skin, imagining it was Declan’s touch. Every inch of me
felt sexual, sensitized. Flames of desire licked up through my core,
throbbing deep and low in my belly, between my legs. I wanted his
mouth on me again. He’d gotten me so crazy, drawing me so close
again and again. He always knew exactly how close to bring me,
exactly when to stop to deny my release.

I moaned. Why did I
love him controlling me like that? Why was it such sweet torture to
put myself completely in his hands? He seemed to read every signal
within me, ones even I hadn’t been aware of.

Opening my eyes, I
realized could see myself. Most of the mirror over the vanity faced
the opposite wall, but one strip faced me in the bath. I could see my
hair piled on top of my head, tendrils escaping. I licked my plump,
parted lips. A breast rose out of the water and I stroked it,
circling the erect nipple, watching myself the whole time. I’d
never seen myself like this, a wonton sex goddess.

Bringing both breasts
up into view, I caressed them, pinched them, watched my face flush
and heat with lust. I wished Declan were there. I wanted to make him
as crazy as he made me. Make him pant, long for me, unable to think
of anything but touching, tasting, taking me. I pinched my nipples,
watching in the mirror. I wanted him to watch me do this as he
stroked his huge cock, then shot out a full, hot load of come across
my tits.

Oh God, where were
these thoughts even coming from? I dropped my hands away. I was
shocking myself. My body was like a racehorse kept too long in the
stable. It wanted out, wanted to flex its muscles and see how fast
and far it could race. Frightened, I knew I needed to put on the
brakes.

I needed to bring
myself back to reality. But what was reality anymore? Was it that
plodding, gray, same day-to-day I’d been sleepwalking through,
tending to my father, the most pressing and immediate needs of the
ranch, watching him fail, slowly? Was it the autopilot I’d flipped
on when I’d lost him, doing everything that needed to be done as I,
once again, experienced slow, inevitable loss—this time of my home?

Declan had only been
back in my life for three days and already I felt so confused. When
you had a dream, you always knew it when you woke up. The quality of
daybreak, that sense of realness and usually relief that no aliens
had landed or you were, in fact, wearing your pants while grocery
shopping.

But here I was wearing
no pants at all and feeling the most overwhelming, both frighteningly
and deliciously strange mix of sensations. Around Declan, I did
almost feel caught in a dream, as if he swept me up and I certainly
couldn’t think straight. But everything also felt more vibrant and
real. I’d simply felt more over the past few days, plain and
simple. I felt alive.

I drained the bath,
lying there listening to the sound of the water until the tub was
nearly empty. Was he next door in the bedroom? Lying a few feet away
from me? Ready with something new to tease me with, drive me wild?

I grabbed a towel.
Huge, fluffy, I enveloped myself in it and opened the door into the
bedroom. It was empty, no sign or trace of Declan. Hesitantly, I
opened the door into the main living area. Nothing. No cool,
collected Declan over by the bar, looking at me low and level and
heated. Not over in his favorite chair, now with the bear pillow. I
smiled a bit.

Over on the kitchen
island, I saw a note. Scrawled in black pen: At the gym. I got an
image of him, bare chested, dripping with sweat.

How could I start to
get aroused all over again? I was a mess. And I was exhausted. That
expanse of a bed called to me. I didn’t really have any clothes to
sleep in, though.

Back in the bedroom, I
pulled open one panel of a large, white tri-fold closet. Rows of
crisp, pressed dress shirts and suits stood at attention, pinstriped
and meaning business in navy and charcoal grey. I didn’t recognize
the names of the designers on the labels. No surprise there. There
was a lot in his world now I simply knew nothing about. I didn’t
know how much money it cost to buy one of these suits, to have a
shirt tailored to fit exactly right, to stay even one night in a
penthouse suite like the one he owned. I didn’t even know how much
money he’d made.

Money. I hated thinking
about it. Why did it have to matter so much? Looking up into
shelving, I didn’t see anything in his closet even remotely like
sleep clothes. Maybe Declan didn’t sleep anymore. Maybe that was
his money-making secret.

Pulling open another
panel, I found where he kept his reserve of jeans, dark and pressed
like the serious investment banker cousins of the dusty faded old
things he used to wear. Damn, but he made both look good. I didn’t
know which I preferred, the ones so old and soft they all but melted
into the form of his hard body. With one button open they looked
about ready to fall off of him, and boy did you hope they would. The
dark ones, though, coupled with a dress shirt like I’d seen him in
the past couple of days, those worked, too. Rough against my bare ass
as he’d held me against him, pulling my head back as I’d writhed
up against his hardness. I liked how he dressed it up but still kept
the jeans. I wondered if he did that during his frequent out-of-state
travel. You could take the man out of Montana, but you couldn’t
take the Montana out of the man.

Over in the corner, I
noticed a white wicker laundry hamper. It only had a few things in
it. I guessed he had a regular laundry service. For a second, that
struck me as somewhat sad. He never had anyone who cared about him
take care of his things, treat a stain and tsk over him having been
so careless, fold his t-shirts and place them in a drawer for him so
they’d be there when he needed them for his early start the next
morning. Sure, sometimes I felt overwhelmed with the amount of
housework each day required, but there was something about laundry. I
almost enjoyed the process, taking in the old and making it fresh and
new. Now that my dad was gone, I missed the funniest things, like
pairing and balling up his socks.

I felt a pinprick of
hot tears in my throat. What was I doing here? This was a huge
mistake. I had to be crazy making myself entirely vulnerable to the
one man who could squash me like a bug. I had to be completely
insane.

A smart woman would
walk away. It had taken me so long to recover from Declan the first
time around. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like a second
time. If you played with fire once and got burned, well, you had the
world’s sympathy. If you stuck your hand right back into the flames
again, you had only yourself to blame. But the flames felt so good.

Hand on my belly, I
took a deep, steadying breath. This was OK. Things were going to be
OK. What I needed most right now was sleep, enveloping, renewing
sleep. I knew from experience, nothing coaxed along sadness and panic
like exhaustion. After some good rest, I always awakened with a sense
of promise.

And tomorrow I would be
heading to New York City. I’d flown over Dallas, but the biggest
city I’d ever walked around was Boise, population not quite
reaching a quarter of a million. That still seemed like a lot to me,
with a 20-story skyscraper and plenty of hustle and bustle. But how
many millions of people lived in New York City? I’d soon find out.

Pulling a black t-shirt
and a pair of boxers out of his laundry hamper, I decided they were
the best things I could find. I certainly wasn’t going to sleep in
one of his suits. Yes, it was weird raiding his laundry basket, but
as I hung up my towel and slipped into his clothes I had to admit,
they had their benefits. They smelled like him.